


What Love Is

by prettyvk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Retirementlock, Scent Kink, chronologically challenged, story fragments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1319902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>21 bits of story about what love is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Love Is

**Author's Note:**

> I saw [this post](http://drachen-rose.tumblr.com/post/79571064771/theburiedlife-what-love-means-to-a-4-8-year%22) about what love means as defined by children, and I was taken by a sudden attack of feels. Johnlock, established, no chronology, no rhyme or reason.
> 
> [Chinese transation](http://tieba.baidu.com/p/3369471007)

Little by little, typing on a keyboard becomes harder, arthritis turning simple gestures to agony. John doesn’t have many true stories to tell, these days, not when it takes extraordinarily interesting cases to lure Sherlock away from his bees. Still, John has taken a liking to writing, and fiction can be fun, too, despite what the resident genius says. John is no stranger to pain, but one day, it becomes too hard. He closes his laptop for good and puts it and his stories away. Two days later, Sherlock pulls it out again, opens the last file John worked on, and reads the last sentence aloud. Then, fingers poised on the keys, he raises an eyebrow at John. Surprise blurs the world for a few seconds. John clears his throat. When he starts talking, Sherlock starts typing.

*

It strikes John out of the blue and with all the subtlety of a bullet tearing flesh apart. Sherlock is interrogating a witness about the victim, who happened to share John’s first name. For one reason or another, Sherlock says the victim’s name. And it’s a whole different word on his tongue. It’s still ‘John’ and at the same time, it’s not the way he pronounces it when addressing John. And John realizes then how much time they could have saved if he’d realized earlier that Sherlock spells ‘love’ every time he says his name.

*

Coming home from a long day at the surgery, John finds himself manhandled by demanding yet gentle hands. They push him, tug him to the sofa, and soon he’s lying there, covered by a warm, living blanket. Sherlock’s face nuzzles against the crook of John’s neck, his nose pressed to John’s skin, and he takes in small sniffs, breathing John in. Running his fingers idly through Sherlock’s hair, John closes his eyes and murmurs, “Missed you too.”

*

Sherlock’s eating habits don’t get any better with time, but John has found a solution. Wherever they happen to eat, he orders the starter and main course Sherlock likes best. He doesn’t offer him food, doesn’t nag him about eating, but can never quite suppress a smile when Sherlock eats from his plate. Sherlock pretends not to notice.

*

It’s been a long day. A long week. Three cases, two chases, one stake-out, and too few hours of sleep. In the cab that takes them back to Baker Street, John closes his eyes. Sherlock’s hand curls at the back of his neck and pulls gently until John’s cheek is pillowed on soft wool that smells like home. He’s still smiling when they get there.

*

It’s not often that sherlock makes tea for John, and that’s okay. John likes making tea, the ritual of it, takes a quiet pride in fixing Sherlock’s cup just right. But every now and then, Sherlock surprises him with a cup - and it always tastes like heaven.

*

After a few weeks, the urgency fades, and while John enjoys being the focus on Sherlock’s amorous ardor quite a lot, a tiny - really, minuscule - part of him is a little relieved he’s not expected to perform several times a day any longer. After all, he’s not all that young anymore. What doesn’t go away, however, is the need to kiss, and that’s just fine as far as he’s concerned. Sometimes, especially in between cases, they spend hours just snogging, wrapped around each other, with no more intent than to be close.This, John hopes, will never fade.

*

Sherlock cares little for Christmas, the presents and noise and social conventions. John knows that, and appreciates even more the efforts Sherlock makes to ensure John’s holidays are special. Every few years, though, John declares himself ‘not in the mood for festivities’. And so they forego buying gifts, decline invitations, stay in on Christmas day and enjoy each other’s company for only present.

*

Sometimes, John hates Sherlock. Hates him with a burning passion, calls him a nightmare, and an arsehole, and a cock, and a bloody idiot - but never, never a freak, never a sociopath. And then he calms down, climbs onto the hospital bed as gently as he can, settles as close to Sherlock as his injuries allow and holds him tight, as tight as he dares when he tells him, again and again, that he’s not allowed to die first.

*

Purple suits Sherlock. It brings out his eyes and flatters his complexion, and he knows it. But it’s only after John comments on how he likes the color on him that three more purple shirts appear in Sherlock’s closet.

*

Some days, they don’t have much to say anymore. After a lifetime, every thought has been voiced at least once, and the important ones thousands of times. But it’s all right. There’s no need for words when they sit on the bench in their little garden and watch the sunset together.

*

Mistakes happen. Today, one happened to John. He could list a dozen things he could have done differently so as not to end up with the muzzle of a gun pressed to his temple - but he can’t think of a single one he could do now to survive. And then Sherlock appears, and John’s fear melts away like ice in the sun.

*

Sherlock still exhausts himself sometimes. He sends John home when a case runs too long, but has no such regard for himself. When he crashes, often unable to even walk down the hall to their bed and tumbling instead on the sofa, John helps him out of his coat or jacket, undoes his shoes for him, wraps an afghan over him, and always, always brushes a kiss to his forehead. And always Sherlock rouses himself enough to thank him.

*

Though their cottage is small, they have a housekeeper - a real one - who cleans and cooks and fusses over them the way a lovely old lady used to, back in London. She makes the most scrumptious biscuits, though only on special occasions. The best ones are filled with Sherlock’s honey. They’re his favorites, but somehow he always tricks John into eating all of those.

*

A few weeks after their first kiss, when it’s still new enough that no one knows yet - except Mycroft; damn CCTV cameras - John watches Sherlock crawl out of a manhole covered in mud - hopefully it’s just mud - and with the beaming grin that means he found the clue he was looking for. He’s glorious. And John doesn’t care about the mud and grime, doesn’t care about the Met around them and how much they’ll gossip, he just comes forward and kisses him.

*

By the time Sherlock is done scenting him, John is hald asleep on the sofa, warm and comfortable and a little bit hungry but not enough to do anything about it yet. The first small lick to his neck jolts him wide awake. The next lick tickles under his chin. The one after that is much lower… and much more pleasant.

*

Little by little, Sherlock transforms John’s wardrobe. A pair of frayed jeans disappears, replaced by fine suit pants. A striped jumper vanishes, and a cashmere sweater takes its place. A fine cotton shirt replaces a less fine one with a missing collar button. Through it all, John’s oatmeal-colored jumper remains, untouched. Upon questioning, Sherlock confesses sentiment; it’s the jumper John wore when he moved into 221B.

*

From the first day they met, John has felt Sherlock’s gaze on him, observing, deducing, cataloguing. The day he realizes Sherlock’s gaze has changed, no longer seeking to dissect but taking John in, drinking in all that he is, is the day he first kisses Sherlock.

*

Few things change. Sherlock has as little regard for John’s private space as ever. He touches him just as often, though admittedly in different ways. He ignores him, sometimes, when he’s in a mood, or talks to him even when John isn’t there. And John realizes why so many people thought they were a couple even before. Domesticity suits them.

*

The most surprising thing, to John, is that Sherlock says the words to him, and quite often at that. Always, they’re a whisper, offered like a gift for John’s ears only. Always, they have that edge of surprise and awe that sentiment might not be so bad after all. Always, they make John’s heart beat a little faster. He’ll never tire of hearing Sherlock say he loves him. Never tire of saying it back.

*

One day, a call comes to the cottage. After all these years, Anthea sounds just the same, though a little sad, today. Without a word, Sherlock goes outside to sit on their bench, and for a while John watches him from behind the window, wondering whether his company is wanted or if Sherlock would rather grieve in private. In the end, he goes out and sits next to him, close but not touching, allowing Sherlock to pretend John isn’t there if that’s what he wants. When Sherlock leans down and rests curls turned silved to John’s shoulder, John wraps an arm around him and holds him close, letting him cry tears he’ll always deny shedding. And he tries not to wonder who will help Sherlock cry when it’s John’s turn to leave. 


End file.
